S P R I N G   R O S E S

One fine spring’s evening

I happened upon a thorn’d rose.

Its jagged petals were razor-sharp,

And at its gaze everything froze.

At its centre a blood-shot eye

Staring out at the world above.

At its core a blood-shot eye

Yearning for solid purity in liquid love.

So on this one fine spring’s evening

I didst pluck this rose most thorn’d

And drew from it its painful scent

A scent tainted by a rose most scorn’d.

And at the core of this rose’s scent

Did I find its secrets hidden.

At its centre did I find a grief

That with simplest touch would be ridden.

And on that one fine spring’s evening

Did that touch come unto this rose.

And before its roots did lose life

Did its blood-shot eyeball close.

And on that one fine spring’s evening

Did a thorn’d rose wilt and die.

Its life spent, its petals brown’d.

And me, the wanderer,

I did walk on.